


elle sera ta reine ce soir

by margctbishop



Series: our world inverted [2]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, You've been warned, okay so there's some smut, smut lite??, wedding night fic!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22076968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margctbishop/pseuds/margctbishop
Summary: "And there is something to be said for the way blue fire seems to peer up at her where irises should be, for the way fingertips brush against the milky earth of her skin and scorch it raw, how insistent lips latch to the fleshy area of her thighs and summon forth blooms of purple and blue. She tastes Arcadia on her tongue."The wedding night, as told by Zelda Spellman.
Relationships: Zelda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: our world inverted [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589131
Comments: 6
Kudos: 67





	elle sera ta reine ce soir

**Author's Note:**

> This is fairly short but I have been meaning to write the wedding night for some time, and I finally got around to it. It is not necessary to read The Body Will Remember to understand this fic, but it would help with the whole relationship/character development thing.
> 
> Anywho, enjoy!

Zelda had plans, ones that could be summarily described as laying her bride down on their bed and showing her the extent of her love until the sun rose above the mortuary, plans that involved her favorite wine and rose petals and a new set of lingerie that Zelda had acquired at a skimpy little shop the town over. These plans are set blazing, however, when Mary not-so-discreetly takes Zelda by the wrist and essentially drags her away from the reception, commands that Zelda transport them back to the mortuary in that very instant, and shoves her against the door before the witch can fully close it behind them. She’s flushing gloriously pink, an effect of the champagne, Zelda thinks, and her breath is hot against Zelda’s face as she gazes up at her with eyes clouded with desire, plucking the pins from an intricately crafted upsweep and letting them drop to the floor. Her hair falls in golden red waves around them, and Mary’s fingers are quick to entangle themselves there and draw the witch in, the woman surging up and claiming Zelda’s lips with her own. She’s a force buzzing with barely concealed energy, all warm wet kisses and feverishly wandering hands gliding over satin and fumbling with the top of Zelda’s zipper, and Zelda chuckles into her mouth.

“What?”

“Marriage agrees with you, darling,” she breathes out, reveling in the further reddening of her bride’s cheeks. She drops a sweet kiss to her lips and runs a hand down her arm until she can lace their fingers, and says, “But might I suggest we move this elsewhere?”

Because Zelda has _plans_ , and she might not have had the time to follow through with the wine or the rose petals, but she refuses to consummate their marriage against the front door, not when there’s a perfectly comfortable bed just upstairs.

The stairs, however, end up proving rather difficult, and Zelda very nearly abandons her resolve and takes Mary right there on the 4th step when the woman presses her against the railing and sneaks a hand up her gown, fingers ghosting along the lace of her panties and teeth biting down at the juncture of her neck. She swallows thickly, grips the wood of the banister for support when a finger slips beneath the thin barrier, finds warmth in slick flesh, and the woman grins her approval into Zelda’s skin. With a firmness rapidly melting away, the witch struggles, wriggles away from Mary’s grasp and renews the journey upward, a smirk surfacing when the woman behind her huffs with annoyance.

Then they’re in the bedroom, and Zelda’s plans appear to be falling back on track. She draws her close, kisses her soundly and blindly leads her until the backs of the woman’s knees are bumping against the mattress, nudges her to fall back so Zelda can cover her lithe body with her own. Mary’s tongue slips between parted lips, runs along the roof of her mouth and drags a soft sigh out of the witch, and Zelda slips a hand around to unfasten the long line of buttons keeping the dress from falling from her shoulders. Her own gown is loosed without her having even heard the telltale unzipping of it, and Mary grins up at her with shameless satisfaction tugging at her lips. Zelda eventually succeeds in popping the last button, urging the fabric downward until her wife, _her wife_ , is bared to her, and she wastes no time before leaning in, working toward marring that pretty alabaster skin with telling red marks.

The woman is impatient beneath her, pupils blown wide and hips canting upward, a whine sounding when Zelda teases soft fingertips along the edges of her bra. She’s just unclasped the offending garment and is about to demonstrate her profound appreciation for the sight before her when Mary’s legs are coming up to lock around Zelda’s waist and she finds herself being flipped, laid out on the sheets and head connecting with the mattress. The woman smiles wickedly at her, leans down to place an open-mouthed kiss on Zelda’s lips, and then she’s sliding down Zelda’s body, hands coming up to tug down lacy black knickers.

And there is something to be said for the way blue fire seems to peer up at her where irises should be, for the way fingertips brush against the milky earth of her skin and scorch it raw, how insistent lips latch to the fleshy area of her thighs and summon forth blooms of purple and blue. She tastes Arcadia on her tongue when her lover sinks down before her and breathes artful worship between her legs, maps rivers in the curvature of her spine and turns her willowy and pliable. The rains that bear down afterward are plentiful, always, leave thoughts of desert droughts in a hazy and distant past as she writhes like a woman possessed, panting and wanton.

There is something to be said for these things, perhaps something sticky with reverent hues and breathy veneration. Had Zelda devoted her earlier years to the studying of the grand romantics as her brother had, maybe she would say such things. She would tell her of her beauty, boundless and divine and rapturous, how when she snakes her fingers through dark locks of hair and tugs, feels rather than hears a resounding hum of approval shoot through her like galvanized sparks, she wants stakes driven through the hands gripping the sheets, wants to be nailed just there, bound in this perpetual state of delirium until the entropy of the universe settles and everything reeks of ash. She would tell her of the love that swells within her at the mention of the woman’s name, of the blood in her veins that rushes to the surface to greet her, of the air that abandons her lungs when Mary plants soft kisses to her lips.

But it comes out as a choked sob, guttural in a throat rapidly constricting and ripped from the very pits of her stomach, and when Mary slips two fingers inside her, moving and curling in perfect tandem with the efforts of her tongue, Zelda’s eyes screw shut, and then she’s coming apart, thighs trembling as they lock around a head of wild dark hair.

She likens the tightening in her stomach and subsequent release to the waves crashing against black rocks on a Corfiot shore, the tide sucking the water back out to sea but leaving her blissful and warm. The kisses placed on her stomach, up and up until they land on the juncture of her neck, evoke the colors of twilight: purples and pinks and oranges, finger-painted with a grace she could never hope to possess. And the woman next to her? Well, the witch thinks, if she were to liken Mary to a goddess, perhaps to the Queen of Olympus herself, then who could fault that? And if that thought was blasphemy, if it painted Zelda as Ceyx and damned her to a watery grave, then deliver her to the sea.

“I _love_ you,” Mary whispers against her neck. Zelda turns, meets shining eyes with rapturous certitude, and resigns herself to drowning.

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that Zelda likely wouldn't observe Greek mythology, but I might have a small head-canon that says differently.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed! Bonne année!


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